The boulder inched forward in steady spurts, passively following the groove of the path. The groove was just its size, exactly. It felt the dirt crushed to dust beneath its weight. Behind, the steady pressure of the man’s hands and the callous of his shoulder.

He was not a young man. It was not a young rock. And the hill was very old indeed.

Up and up. Up and up.

The summit was drawing nearer, and the man was breathing hard. The boulder pitied his effort. What was it for? They had been here many times before, and would be so again.

Up and up. Up and up.

“I’m afraid I have to admit,” the boulder whispered in apology, “rolling back down is my favorite part.”

Jacqueline dipped her toes into the water. It was warm, just shy of truly hot. The kind of warm that invites you in and can hold you there for hours. The hot spring released long ribbons of steam into the winter air, which were easily lost against the white banks of snow behind it. Jacqueline slipped into the water.

The spa was crowded. It was the high season for such things, and everyone was eager for the naturally occurring bath. She looked around, recognizing almost everyone: their name, their rank, their family relations. No such thing as anonymity here. Absolutely everyone she knew came to this spa absolutely every year. If the water wasn’t so nice, the whole thing would be a bore.

Jacqueline brushed a stray silver hair from her eyes and waited. And it didn’t take long for her to be found.

“Oh my God, for a minute I thought you weren’t coming,” Barbara greeted her, gliding through the water, “How’ve you been, kiddo?”

“Fine,” Jacqueline shrugged.

“Really? You’re fine? You’re sure? I would’ve been a mess after a humiliation like that – sorry, a tragedy – it’s a tragedy, Jackie, really. But you were always so…demure. No wonder you’re holding up so well. Oh, here, sweetheart, let me get that,” Barbara reached up and plucked a louse from Jacqueline’s hair. She tossed the bug into her mouth with bath-wrinkled fingers.

“But really, you’re fine?” she asked as she chewed.

“It’s not so bad,” Jacqueline said, allowing Barbara to continue picking through her hair, “I mean, we had a decent run, I suppose…And I always knew it wouldn’t last.”

“That’s really big of you, Jackie, I mean it.”

Jacqueline mulled it over, picking up a pebble with her toes and letting it fall back slowly through the water.

“Do you think it’s the hair above my lip?” she asked, “I’ve always been kind of self-conscious about it. Not that there’s a lot of it or anything, it’s just…it’s something you might notice, y’know?”

“There’s nothing wrong with your lip, believe me, it isn’t you. He’s just an animal – all impulse, no commitment. Like you said, you knew it wouldn’t last.”

“Oh God!” Jacqueline slipped out of Barbara’s hands and into the water until it was up to her nose.

“What?”

“There he is!” Jacqueline pointed to the far edge of the pool. Through the throng of other bathers, adolescents, and infants clinging to mothers’ backs, strode in Shep, the alpha-male. All others yielded from his path.

“Yes – the little tart. Have you heard about her? She’s taken to calling herself Hélène – who does she think she is – as if nobody knows her name is Helen,” Barbara scoffed, “Just because she’s got Shep’s favor for now, you’d think the was queen of the universe or something, the way she struts around like that.”

“He’s with Helen?”

“Oh, God, sorry sweetheart. You didn’t know?”

Jacqueline dunked her head beneath the water. Barbara pulled her up.

“What should I do? What should I do?” Jacqueline panicked, “Should I bare my teeth? Huh? Should I throw my–”

“No, no, no – that’s beneath you. You know what we’re gonna do? We’re gonna get you all nice and groomed, and you’re gonna have a nice soak, and by the time we go back up the mountain you’re gonna feel fine – brand new.”

“You mean it?” Jacqueline asked, wringing her tiny hands together.

“Absolutely.”

“You’re the best…Oh, here,” she plucked a tick from Barbara’s neck. She even allowed herself the hint of a smile as she made a snack of the bug. Jacqueline turned her back, letting Barbara groom her coat of silver hair. She pushed away all thoughts of Shep as far as she could, concentrating instead on the long pink faces bobbing aimlessly through the warmth of the water.

Such bewitching melodies would have surely lured the sailors overboard, abandoning their diets, had Odysseus not ordered them to plug their ears with wax. But alas, a young oarsman did not heed the order, for he was briefly distracted by the entertainment of Tubed cats. Thus the siren’s song crept into his ears, igniting a most powerful desire.

Ignoring the cries of the mast-bound Odysseus, the oarsman leapt from his bench and took hold of the wheel. And though he was but a scrawny youth, he strained the rudder against the current with tremendous force – turning the entire ship towards its doom.

Realizing their peril, the other sailors tried to stop the oarsman – but nay, it was too late. The youth was already intoxicated by the siren’s frothy spice of pumpkin, the proof of his folly already posted to Facebook. Hashtag sorry-not-sorry indeed.

Odysseus’ grief was great, but seeing as they were already stopped, he saw no harm in ordering a mocha, which was much to his glorious preference. And yea, all the sailors did drink the fancy coffee of the siren, delaying their oft-detoured return to Ithaca by another twenty minutes. Odysseus prayed to the gods that Penelope would not mind.

“I just like watching the people, y’know?” Jessica said, pulling more of the Orange Julius into her mouth, “I like thinking about what their lives are like, or making up stories for them – sometimes I get really elaborate with it. Last week I made up three generations worth of backstory for woman wearing a salmon colored blazer.”

“Because of the blazer?” Nina asked.

“Because she caught my eye.”

Nina glanced around the food court. There was certainly more than enough to look at: new mothers navigating their SUV strollers, the determined walk of the track-suited elderly. Coming down a corridor, a gaggle of prepubescent girls shrieked and giggled; no doubt eager to spend their allowance money on the pleasure of buying, rather than having. Elsewhere, a group of juveniles like peacocks engaged in earnest displays of courtship.

“It’s like a zoo,” Nina said.

“What?” Jessica pricked up her ears. Their conversation was barely audible to one another over the hum of other people. Overhead, the mall tv blared, its banalities amplified poor acoustic choices.

“It’s like a zoo, y’know? You come and see the animals?”

“No,” Jessica shook her head, “It’s like a jungle. Here we observe suburban human in it’s natural habitat. They gather at the watering hole.”

Nina followed Jessica’s gesture up, observing the the fluorescent canopy held in place by massive pillars, then down again to the masses below. She smiled limply. The notion of their safari was equally comical and depressing. She stacked up the remains of her slick-packaged carrion.

“Ready?” Jessica asked, discovering an empty sound with her straw.

“Yeah. I just want to stop at one or two places yet.”
They rose and left their table, depositing their trays in the appointed bin. The circle of life and wrappers. Nina and Jessica assimilated into the slow stampede back toward commerce, passing a man with mop and bucket as they went.

The naked bulbs around the mirror flickered. Power was never quite reliable. It came and went as it pleased. Grease paint, on the other hand, was far too loyal. A thin residue of last night’s show was still lingering as today’s face was painted on. Thick white, thick red, maybe a little blue or green. Plus a nose you couldn’t breath through. The light flickered again. Maybe someone’s walking on the cord.

The mirror’s gotten cloudy over the years. Unwashable blooms like cataracts had developed beneath the glass. At least it’s only around the edges. Charlie opened up the jars of paint, releasing their familiar smell. Then stopped.

Who on earth is that, that man inside mirror? He’s old. The slightest folds around his mouth had entrenched, cutting deep into the flesh. His cheeks, withered. His teeth, yellow. The lower rims of his eyes were slack and pink. Charlie looked the mirror in the eye. I’ve become a stranger.

Ten, twenty, thirty years had caught up in an instant. The young man in borrowed trousers was nowhere to be seen. The young man with cardboard suitcase and the wildest dreams – that! That man is me. But where did he go? This man is old and tired.

Charlie stretched his skin taut across the bone, but that wasn’t any better. His youth had disappeared inside this tougher skin, made tough by time a lifetime on the rails. Perhaps only a fool is a fool for this long. Silliness and slapsticks belong surely to the young. The younger. The better limbered and more relevant. Not this aging stranger.

Charlie scooped a glob of grease paint from the jar. No use thinking of it now, this old man had a job to do. Ridiculous old man. Has and been with nothing left to…Charlie met his eye again, his face half painted white and red. And cracked a smile.

Ah yes, there I am.

Fully painted, the stranger became again the laughing youth. Charlie donned his topless top hat and pinned a cotton flower to his breast. The lights flickered and he was out the door, giggling as he went.

“I don’t wanna sing anymore, I don’t wanna tour, I don’t wanna get on anotha’ stage again for the rest a my life. I’m through.”

“Aw, c’mon Lorraine, you don’t mean that.”

“The whole dream ’s broke down.” The words barely made it out before her voice clammed up entirely. Her face went flush in an unbearable heat under the cake of yesterday’s makeup. It was too much, and too cruel. Lorraine ran the edge of her hand under her eye to catch the damp.

“Hey, hey now,” Blanche cooed, setting hands upon her shoulders, “It’s not that bad. Look, you’re just tired and this tour ‘s been shit anyway. But you love singin’, you don’t really wanna quit that do ya?”

Lorraine looked away into the distance, willing dryer eyes.

“I tell ya what, soon as we get to Kansas City, you an’ me ditch this gig and go see my buddy at the Savoy – give it one last shot someplace decent, ok?”

Lorraine’s breath went heavy in her chest. She would’ve allowed herself to fall if Blanche’s hands weren’t still clinging to her shoulders. It was so much. The ashes of her career felt insurmountable. It would be easier to forget it entirely, pretend it never happened – to shut down that part of herself and replace it with something stable and numb. But then…she slowly nodded her head.

“Good,” Blanche said with more relief than joy, “Now why don’t we go sit down again, huh? Take it easy this mornin’.”

Lorraine sucked in her tears and wandered back toward the gaping door of the bus. Once more. On the distant edge of the road, she saw a pair of figures – Al the driver was returning with a mechanic.

Our two windows stand on either side of a narrow slit of pavement six stories lower. I used to wonder why the architects would do something so intrusive as to line up bedroom windows like this, but then, the flat brick alternative would have been far too depressing. So now we peer into each other, often without intending. Semi-self conscious subjects and semi-conscious viewers – we are in each other’s fishbowl. But I see your light’s turned out. Our embarrassed observations will continue in the morning.

It’s strange that neither of us has bothered to put up curtains. That would have been the obvious solution. Instead I’ve gone to great lengths to position the bed out of sight, mostly. I’ve taken to changing my clothes in the bathroom, mostly. And I’m aware that you are genuinely uninhibited on both accounts. Might want to have that mole looked at though, I think it’s gotten bigger.

That woman you had over last night, do you think it’s serious? I think she’s serious about you. It was written so plainly on her face I could see it even at this distance. And I even like the buck teeth – gives her a darling bunny quality. Much better than the woman before. I knew that makeup encrusted old tart was no good from the very beginning. And where did she leave you? In a puddle of tears and tissues, drenched in three bottles of cheap whisky. Not that I was counting.

While we’re on the subject, what do you think of the beau? I’ve been debating on whether or not to keep things going. And I saw the look you gave him as you toasted your cups of coffee through the windows the other day – you’re apprehensive too. I promise he doesn’t always yell like that. Didn’t used too. But a lot of things are on the rocks right now, so I can’t exactly blame him. Can I? If we actually spoke, I’d be keen for your advice. The advice of an older man, like a distant uncle I’ve adopted. But no, that would cross a line we’ve been so careful to maintain.

How long have you lived in the building opposite my own? How many other tenants have come and gone from these windows? And did you have the same friendly non-relationship with them? Oh, listen to me babble against the darkness of your unlit window. I almost sound jealous. Curious. You are a source endless curiosity my dear neighbor, my imagined non-imaginary friend. We see each other swimming circles around our cheaply rented rooms, interpolating entire lives from the briefest bits of moments…

“What did I tell you about leaving the stove on?” Ma switched off the dial with a mean flick of her hand.

“It wasn’t on.”

“Was too, I can feel the heat pourin’ off it,” she held her hand six inches from the coil, staring down her nose at Dottie. And Dottie knew that look. That look nailed your feet to the floor, burning you in a cold sweat. That look was justice and trouble.

“Ma, I swear, it wasn’t on.”

“Little girl, don’t you think I can tell when the stove is on or not?” She wrung her hands together, wiping off the heat. One at a time she twisted every dial, on and off, on and off, just for making sure.

Dottie had watched the ritual of dials a thousand on a thousand times. Always before they left the house, or even when they left the room, the stove was checked, checked, checked. None of the other mothers do that. They didn’t have a reason to.

Ma had been eleven or twelve when it happened. There was no being sure on details because Daddy had been the one to tell the story, and he had only heard it second hand himself. Ma never once said a word, but then Dottie never heard anybody ask her. And no way was she going to.

A man had moved into the house with very little explanation. Ma and her sister had only been told to call him their uncle. He was there to help, see? To be their protector and guardian, a regular member of the family. But everybody knew he wasn’t. He was a slippery, wily thing that wound his way into their home. And once there, became a monster.

Here the story goes real quiet.

Officially, some grease had got onto the coils. There was bad wiring. Some careless towel was left unattended by the stove and something just – poof! Such bad luck, they all guessed. Such a miracle the girls, at least, survived. Daddy never quite said it, but then he didn’t need to. Dottie knew it had been Ma.

“You left it on again,” Ma said, her eyes still hard on Dottie, “What did I tell you about leaving it on?”

“The stove was off, Ma, it’s always off,” Dottie rose from the kitchen chair, “We disconnected it two years ago.”

The old woman looked at the stove confused. For all her secret, violet history, for all her survivor’s strength, she had become something fragile nonetheless. She held her hand above the coils with a whimper.

Dottie stood over her mother, drawing her hands away from the range. She was a head taller, with an inherited the frame, cradling her mother like a child. They stood looking at one another, like mirror images on either side of thirty years. But Ma was walking away. Somewhere, inside this smaller, older body. She was walking away.

“Remember?” Dottie said, “It was making you so upset all the time. So we turned it off for good.”

“Mmm,” Ma hummed, the sound coming up from the deep places in her memory, “That’s good. We don’t need nothin’ burnin’ anymore.”

“No, I don’t blame you, Harry,” Nadine rest her head down on the counter, “But I think you could’a told me sooner.”

“I know honey, and I’m sorry.” He flicked a lamp on, partially filling the room with weak yellow light. Nadine’s slender fingers drew perspiration down from her glass to trace shapes upon the lamination. The veins on her hand stuck out more than they used to.

“Does Bernice know?” she asked.

“Not yet. I thought I’d tell ‘er in the morning. Or maybe wait until she comes home next weekend.”

“You’ll call her in the morning.”

“I’ll call her in the morning,” Harry agreed. He opened a window, hoping for the cool night air. How long had he been promising to fix the screech that it made?

“And you tell that child everything.”

“Of course, honey, everything.”

“God, what luck we have.”

Harry walked over and laid his hands on Nadine’s slender shoulders. The starched cotton dress stood away from her body. It was just enough to let his hands slip under as he tried to ease the muscle.

She sat up. Her thumb idly twisting the wedding ring around her finger.

“So you got a plan or somethin’?”

“Workin’ on it. Frank said they might got somethin’ for me uptown – but too early to say.”